


Spring Weasel

by threewalls



Series: The Adventures of Dashing Sky Weasel and Hare [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animals, Community: areyougame, F/M, First Meetings, First Time, Furry, Interspecies, Non-Anthro, Sex Pollen, in heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-11
Updated: 2008-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the spring, a young weasel's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of... bunny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Weasel

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on a Youtube vid (sadly no longer available) that ellnyx found for me and the prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Fran/Balthier: Interspecies - It’s the differences.

The noon sun is hot and high over the Tchita Uplands and there is no wind to carry the blood of the coeurls she has downed with arrows. Hare sheds her bow, her sweat-stained tunic on the bank, and steps towards the shallows of the stream. Her claws sink pleasantly into the wet gravel.

Ears turning, she hears a pebbled crunch, her haunches already tensing to spring. The weasel not ten strides distant is as naked as she, his slim white chest, dark eyes, purple sex.

Hare turns for the plains behind her, gravel, pebbles, and then long strides of grass, grass, grass, but she also hears the weasel running. She weaves, strong legs leaping this way and that, but the weasel runs a wide arc. Hare cannot shake him from her line of sight, his feet invisibly fast. His coat is dark now.

Hare stops, watching him, panting, thinking.

The weasel does not run straight towards her, but leaps and gambols. He runs left and right, at seeming random. He runs past her, so close that she could smell that he is male even without seeing that he is so. His coat is light, no dark, no--

He flips and turns, the flickering dark point of his tail becoming the endless pale expanse of his underbelly, becoming his dark pointed head. She keeps him in sight, his movements strange and alluring if curious, confusing.

Hare isn't sure why she doesn't move, why she no longer wants to move, doesn't dare move, but only watches the weasel's erratic leaps and flips: the play of light on his fur, the flash of white, his tawny, gold-flecked back, until she can't even see the ground. Hare can only see him, and his dance. Light, dark, light, dark. Her limbs are heavy. She is sinking into the ground. Her breath is slow and deep.

And then his teeth are at her throat and her back is on the ground, with the long, twisting length of his body pinning her down. Hare's legs and arms fall wide open as she falls, her body still unwilling to her will. She can only see the grass she lies on. The weasel's fur is hot as he writhes over her belly, his sharp mouth nipping where her sluggish blood suddenly rushes so fast. Hare needs to move, to run, but she cannot even make her legs twitch.

But, she is not dead, not dying, not yet, and the weasel smells only of another sort of hunger. His frenetic, thrusting movements do not allow her freedom, but she is no longer eager to flee. Hare's body arches up, almost tipping them sideways, but the weasel's claws are deeply anchored in her underfur, though they do not penetrate her skin. He teases her, the prick of his teeth, the warm push of his body, slim muscle to her large bulk, and his strange, wonderful thick weasel smell: something musk and alien, and with a metallic tang. Hare remembers an airship scattering the coeurls, disturbing the early morning air, a thought and then gone. She smells her own growing hunger, licks his furred cheek, his throat as he rubs his head against her. Hare grabs his shoulders and pins the weasel's upper body against her as he writhes, and writhes, striping her belly with heat, and stills.

The weasel leaps off her. "I am so sorry. I don't know--"

Hare bends and twists until she finds a suitable position. The weasel's spendings are bitter and rich on her nose, on her tongue.

"--what came over me. I simply... had to..." The weasel sits on his back paws, and he is watching her.

Hare stretches, reaching her tongue a little lower down her belly, and her single upraised foot bounces. Her legs are thrown very wide, and she is very wet.

The weasel's whiskers twitch, his neck bending down, but he stops. "My name is-- I call myself 'Dashing Sky Weasel'."

"Hare."

"Charmed, I'm sure."

Dashing's attempts to look only at her face are thwarted by the present location of her face.

"There is a spot of, um, on your whiskers. Might I assist?"

Hare untwists herself, lying back. Dashing leans forward, his paws by her shoulders, bracing himself. His tongue flickers over her whiskers, small, but quick. It tickles, her nose twitches, and he licks it. Hare licks his throat, he her cheek, her jaw, her lips. Hare wants to flip them, but Dashing is agile, his body moving. She can smell where they are slick with each other, growing slicker.

"There are spots lower down," Hare pants.

"All in good time, my dear." Dashing play-bites the muscles of her neck, and it makes Hare kick.

\---

"I am sorry, for forcing myself upon you like that."

The sun is warm over her fur. Hare turns her head in Dashing's direction, before opening her eyes.

While Hare had only bundled her tunic into a pillow, Dashing is wearing his clothes, the loose white shirt and an embroidered vest the colour of his fur that he retrieved from the other side of the stream. He has a gun to match her bow, now hanging from his belts.

"You're from a city," Hare says.

Dashing goes still, but then nods. "Archades. Almost the first time this far from the city limits. Am I that obvious?"

"You do not know what the flowers cast here, how much more difficult it becomes to resist the spring."

"Oh." Dashing turns away, watching the horizon, the higher bluff, the lower plateau. He fastens and re-fastens his cuffs.

"Not just the spring," Hare says. Dashing's eyes are not merely dark, but hazel, she sees. "Nor the pollen. I did not shoot you."

"No. No, you didn't." Dashing looks at each of the coeurl carcasses, considering, counting. "There was a bounty, a mark. It did seem overvalued."

Hare sits up, and raises a paw towards the largest carcass. It will weigh more than thrice her own body weight, which is itself certainly greater than Dashing's. They look at it for a long moment, the plateau still and empty and quiet but for them.

"How were you planning to get it back to Balfonheim?" he asks.

Hare waits.

"Something tells me that you know I have an airship. If I may ask, do you do this sort of thing often? We could work together."

"50-50."

"Partners," Dashing nods. "If you'd like."

Hare rises to her feet, shaking out her tunic and slipping it over her head.

"Yes, I would like that."


End file.
